Iridescent
by fleeingthemundane
Summary: With Heaven shattered and Hell without leadership, tensions are rising and former enemies must learn to work together for the sake of all they have ever fought for.
1. Chapter 1

She hadn't been lying.

It really didn't seem fair, in Castiel's opinion. If there had ever been anything that he held firm belief in, it was that she was wrong and he was right. She lied, manipulated, and twisted things. She wasn't honest, and he had had no reason to trust her.

If life was just, she would have been lying, and Metatron would have been the victim. He would have gone to Heaven and killed her, rescued Metatron, and then finished the trials as planned. He would have fixed things.

But, as they say, life isn't fair.

Feeling cold and numb, he sank down to the ground. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, and he brought his hand up to trace along his throat. His fingers stopped at his pulse and lingered for a moment.

Human. He was human.

He realized he should move, but could not find the will to do so. His limbs felt heavy, and his mind was filled with static and a dull ringing. He rested his head in his hands, pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to clear the fog that seemed to have settled over his mind. It didn't help.

The forest around him was strangely quiet; there were no insects or nightbirds calling, and the air was still and cool. It seemed, in a way, that the universe was taking a moments of silence. Perhaps it was.

Castiel didn't move again until he saw the sun begin rise above the trees. Stiffly, he stood, ignoring the ache in his muscles, and stretched. He turned and began to walk, not bothering to consider what direction he was heading. If he was moving he would eventually end up somewhere, and, at the moment, that was his only goal.

* * *

As the last of the angels fell, Dean and Sam led a handcuffed Crowley to the Impala. The demon was conscious, but barely. He stumbled as he walked, and his head lolled forward every few steps.

"Sam, why the Hell don't we just kill him?" Dean snarled as they shoved Crowley into the backseat.

"Dean, if we can find another way to close the gates, we'll need him."

Dean didn't respond, settling himself in the driver's seat and gripping the steering wheel tightly as Sam shakily climbed into the car. Dean looked nervously at the sweat beading up on Sam's forehead just from the effort of moving. "You feelin' okay, Sammy?"

"I'm holding up. Let's get out of here."

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Sam spoke again. "What happened? To the angels?"

Dean drew in a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Y'know that angel that sent Bobby's soul up to Heaven for the second trial?"

"Naomi?"

"Yeah. She came down and told Cas that Metatron was planning to throw all the angels out of Heaven. We didn't know if she was telling the truth, but I didn't want to risk it just in case she was. Well, Cas decided he didn't want to trust her and brought me back here and took off. Anyway, I guess it turns out she wasn't lying because now it's raining dicks."

"And she told you the trials were going to kill me?"

"Yup. If she's still alive we owe her one."

"If she's still alive?"

"Yeah. Cas had it out for her big time for whatever reason."

"Huh."

More silence followed, only to be broken by a voice from the backseat. "So, the birds fell out of the nest, did they?"

Dean glanced back to see that Crowley had propped himself up and was eyeing him with an expression of dark amusement.

"No talking, douchebag," Dean growled.

"So, what now?" Sam asked.

"We get home, lock him up, and try to figure out where Cas is."

Sam watched him silently for a moment, and Dean shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"Dean… do we even know if Cas is still alive? I mean, what do you think he had to do to make them all fall?"

Dean clenched his jaw and shook his head slightly. "Look, let's not assume the worst until we have to, alright?"

Sam stared at him for a moment more and then nodded. "Alright."

* * *

In the middle of a forest in Nebraska, Naomi awakes to searing pain. It courses through her body and consumes her mind, making her cry out and curl in on herself, fingers digging into the earth. Gasping, and ignoring the new rushes of pain that each movement brings, she attempts to lift herself into a sitting position, and then raises a hand to the back of her head and fumbles until she finds the handle of her drill as it juts from her skull. Dragging in a ragged breath, she wrenches it free, the action ripping another scream from her throat. She drops the drill on the ground beside her and collapses forward, supporting herself on her arms and trying to catch her breath.

Slowly, the pain begins to recede, fading in intensity from a scorching agony into something that, while still extremely unpleasant, she can mange. After a few minutes, she gingerly begins to attempt to rise, finally managing to lift herself to her feet and stand shakily. She stumbles forward a few steps until she reaches a tree and then leans against it, eyes closed and breathing heavily.

As the memories of recent events begin to wash over her, she finds herself opening her eyes and glancing up at the night sky above her.

She had failed. The thought itself made her stomach turn. She had tried everything, and it hadn't even mattered. Castiel had, as always, destroyed it all. Now, the entirety of her family was scattered and stranded, and her home was utterly out of reach. It had been her job to keep control, to protect them, and she and failed each and every one of them.

She doesn't realize she's crying until she glances down and notices the tears falling from her cheeks. Something in her shatters, and her shoulders begin to shake as she suppresses a sob.

She hates grief. Grief, in her eyes, is dangerous and disabling. She wishes she was angry, because she knows how to handle anger. She can channel it, and she can use it as a weapon and shield. Grief is different. It's consuming and paralyzing and not something any leader should display.

When Castiel had slaughtered Raphael and his followers, Naomi had been tempted to give into grief. It would have been much easier than attempting to fix what seemed to be a hopeless situation. As she had walked among the corpses of her siblings, the ashes of their charred wings clinging to the bottom of her shoes, she had turned her grief into a quietly simmering fury. She remembered well the expression of uneasiness on Ion's face when he had come at her summon to meet her in her office. She had let herself show no emotion, and had greeted him with a blatantly false smile, informing him that she was going to fix what had happened. Yes, anger had been her weapon then. It had kept her going as the bodies were disposed of, and, later, as plans were made to begin to reconstruct the broken fragments of her home. Strangely enough, her anger had never been aimed toward Castiel. No. Instead, it had been aimed at herself, for failing to fix him before this had happened; it had been aimed at her father for allowing this; it had been aimed at Michael for being so focused on serving a father who had abandoned them that he had forgotten what he owed to the family that he still had. Naomi loved anger, because it drove her forward when she had nothing else to hold onto, and because it was the best weapon of all.

As she found herself sinking down to the ground, arms wrapped around her knees and tears still rolling silently down her cheeks, she allowed herself to have this one moment to give into grief, for her family and for what they had lost. Soon she would numb herself, and she'd get back up and start looking for ways to fix things, as she always had. But, for now, she was going to allow herself to hurt. In her eyes, she deserved it.

* * *

On a downtown street in a small city, a woman sits on a bench in front of a club, legs crossed and arms folded across her chest, a sour expression on her face. As she contemplates some unknown thoughts, the lyrics of the song blaring on a stereo in the building catch her attention.

_"Light 'em up, light 'em up, I'm on fire!" _the singer crows.

The woman's head whirls around and she shoots an annoyed look in the direction of the door. The sounds of an explosion and screaming follow, and smoke begins to billow out of the door. The song has stopped playing.

Abaddon smirks and stands, glancing her new vessel up and down. She isn't fond of it, but it will suffice until she repairs her previous one.

Mentally, she forms a checklist.

_ 1. Fix her vessel._

_ 2. Gather the reins of Hell._

_ 3. Find Crowley and the Winchesters._

_ 4. Torture Crowley and the Winchesters._

_ 5. Kill Crowley and the Winchesters._

Abaddon smiles to herself and sets off, high heels clicking on the sidewalk. This was going to be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hm, look at that. I'm actually continuing a story for once. Crazy. Anyway, this definitely isn't perfect, but I think it's coming along well enough.**

In the Heaven of a thirty-eight-year-old bibliophile who had died of a heart attack a few years earlier, Metatron paced among the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and brooded. If he was perfectly honest, he'd have to say that he'd expected the high of the victory to last longer. After all, his story had played out beautifully.

He pulled a book down from the nearest shelf and flipped it open, eyes scanning the pages without seeing the words. Annoyed, he flipped it closed and set it back in its place before stalking to another aisle.

For the life of him, he couldn't figure out where this nagging feeling of discontent was coming from. It wasn't like it was guilt. Guilt was for those who secretly knew they were wrong, and he was quite firm in his conviction that he was right. He had freed them. He had knocked the tyrannical queen off her throne and had given them all a new chance to experience what they were missing. He was their messiah.

Frustrated, he grabbed another book, this one with yellowed pages and a cracked leather cover, and attempted to focus on the words on the first page, only to find himself unable to absorb their meaning. He shoved the book roughly back into its space on the shelf and left the Heaven with a beat of his wings, transporting himself to Naomi's office. He stood for a moment, looking at the dried blood on the desk, and smiled to himself. He could have killed her, oh yes, but his plan had been even better, and a great deal more satisfying.

Her tool had bound her Grace to her vessel, so that when she fell her wings burned a great deal more slowly, as opposed to burning away in a flash as they had for the others. Not to mention, she would be left injured for at least a short while. This, combined with the fact that she would be forced to see that he had won, to realize that there was nothing she could do to take control again, and to be forced to live with the fact that she had failed, amused Metatron greatly. He felt a great pride in being the one to punish her for her sins, and part of him thought that it was even a kindness; perhaps suffering could help her reach absolution. Not that the bitch deserved it, in his opinion. Perhaps he had just done it for his own enjoyment. He didn't ponder it.

Another beat of his wings took him to the Heaven of another reader, this one with a gigantic library that contained spiral staircase and an unimaginable number of books. Metatron selected a few at random and settled himself down. He had won, and had an easy road ahead of him. It was time to enjoy himself for a while.

* * *

If Naomi had a list of things she detested, walking would probably be somewhere near the top.

After spending the night in the forest and waiting for her injuries to heal, she had set off, pushing her way through brambles and bushes, her shoes sinking into the mud and leaves as she walked. Her head still throbbed with every step, and she was desperately wishing she could smite something, if only to deal with her growing annoyance at the situation.

However, the lengthy walk had given her plenty of time to think about a variety of things, one of those being Castiel.

Naomi had always attributed Castiel's inability to stay dead to something wrong with his wiring; a glitch in the system. Part of her had known that it was probably an illogical way of thinking (after all, when did things really just happen for no reason?), but she had found it a great deal more comforting than having to accept the alternative, which was that her Father had been the one responsible for Castiel's numerous revivals.

God had abandoned the angels, and left them in charge of humanity. The idea of him being gone was terrifying, but Naomi had learned to accept it, and had continued to work diligently under the Archangels orders after His departure. She sometimes still felt his absence, but she had learned to ignore the feeling, because, after all, what could she do?

However, the idea that her Father was still watching them, but only interfering to help Castiel, was both infuriating and unnerving, because it raised the question of why.

For the longest time she had believed Castiel to be a glitch, a dud, broken. If God was bringing him back, was it because he the only one of them on the right path? The idea made Naomi intensely uncomfortable.

Over the years, she had often doubted whether her methods of control were truly right. She had to admit, it was easier to work without questioning when in times of hardship; it was more justifiable when it was easy to see that keeping control over the thoughts of individuals was important to the masses. However, in times when she only found herself altering the thoughts of only the occasional angel, she would sometimes wonder if she was doing something wrong.

She still remembered when she had been given the job. She had been wary, but Michael had insisted that it was for the better.

"We don't want another Lucifer," he had told her, reassuring her that she'd be helping, and would take the roll of a shepherd, keeping the flock gathered and safe.

And, it wasn't as if the procedure hurt them. Not really. She knew it caused pain, but it was only temporary, and she wiped the memory of the event from their minds immediately after. No harm done, and they would be much safer and happier if they fit in, than if they were to rebel and be cast out.

That was her justification over the years, and the way of thinking had kept her secure.

Naomi was broken from her reverie by the sound of vehicles on a road. Sighing with relief, she quickened her pace. If she could find some form of transportation this trip would be a great deal less aggravating, and, fortunately, she still had enough power to create materials from thin air, so it wasn't as if money would be an issue.

A minute's more of walking brought her to the edge of a small rural highway occupied by the occasional few cars. She glanced up and down the road quickly, and saw what appeared to be a small building in the distance. Smiling to herself, she set off in its direction.

When she arrived, she found that the building was what looked to be a small family diner. She decided this would do well enough; diners had people, occasionally people who were stopping mid-journey. With luck, she might be able to find someone heading toward Kansas.

She made her way through the smudged glass doors of the restaurant and glanced around, noting the decent number of people. She hesitated for a moment, uncertain as to whether or not she should just seat herself, or if she should go talk to the gentleman standing behind the counter. Humans were funny about that sort of thing, as far as she knew. She decided her best option would be to talk to the man.

She stepped up the counter and the man gave her a smile. "Afternoon, ma'am. What can I get for you today?"

Naomi glanced at the handwritten menu behind him and wondered what humans commonly ordered. Was it tea? Something like that. Or did it depend on the country?

"Ma'am?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

Naomi shook her head slightly and cleared her throat. "Um, just a coffee."

She had never had coffee before, but humans seemed to enjoy it.

The man looked at her strangely for a moment and then nodded. "Right, then. You can take a seat, and we'll have that right over to you in a minute."

Naomi nodded and chose a booth toward the corner of the building. She sat and considered the best way to approach looking for transportation, smiling at the man when he eventually brought her the coffee. She regarded the drink warily and then took a hesitant sip, wincing at the bitter taste. Why humans drank the stuff escaped her. She was examining the cream and sugar containers on the table and wondering if she should try to add some to the drink when a conversation at the counter caught her attention.

"Do you live around here?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No, just passing through," the newcomer replied.

"Where ya heading?"

"Oklahoma. Visiting family."

"Ah, alright, then. You've got a bit of a drive ahead of you."

"Yeah. Figured I'd stop for a bite real fast, since I'm gonna be on the road for a while."

Naomi watched the new man for a moment. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with dark curly hair and rather angular features. His eyes were tired, but there was a kindness there, and Naomi decided she would approach him, since he seemed to be heading in the direction she needed to go.

She waited until he had chosen a booth, and then picked up her coffee and walked over to join him. He looked at her with an expression of vague confusion as she settled herself into the seat across from him.

She cleared her throat and gave him a polite smile. "I couldn't help but overhear that you were heading toward Oklahoma."

The man arched an eyebrow. "Uh, yes?"

Naomi nodded. "Well, through some rather unfortunate events, I've found myself stranded in the area, and I need to get to Kansas as soon as possible. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to ride with you? I have money, and would be perfectly happy to help with expenses," she added quickly.

The man stared at her for a minute, eyes narrowed. "What's your name?"

"Naomi."

"I'm David," he said, offering her his hand. She shook it firmly and then folded her hands in front of her. "How did you get stuck here?"

Naomi shrugged. "It's rather complicated. Family issues."

David looked her up and down. "Did your husband kick you out or something?"

Naomi blinked, not expecting that question. "Not quite."

"Huh. Well, I could always use the money for gas, and family issues suck, so sure. I'm heading out in a little while."

Naomi smiled. "Fantastic, and thank you."

"No problem."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment before David spoke again. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what are you going to find in Kansas?"

"My brother. We've had some issues arise between us that I'd like to resolve."

David nodded. "Ah. I know the feeling. I've just recently talked to my sister for the first time in about six years. I'm actually heading to visit her and her kids right now."

"Oh. Siblings can be quite frustrating."

"You're telling me."

Naomi smiled slightly, and went to take a sip of her coffee, nose crinkling at the taste.

David stared at her for a moment. "Do you, uh, want some cream or sugar for that or something?" He paused, and then chuckled. "Maybe some whiskey, if you've got family issues on the mind?"

Naomi tilted her head. "Sugar would be fine."

He nodded and pushed the basket holding the sugar toward her. Naomi dumped a few packets in and then took a sip, pleased to find they had improved the taste.

He watched her drink and then shook his head wonderingly. "Where are you from? Really?"

Naomi gave a small, amused huff and a slight smile. "Far away."

David stood up from his seat, shaking his head. "So, we're doing the mysterious traveler thing? I thought that only happened in books."

Naomi shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

"Well, normally I'd be a little wary of someone refusing to tell me anything about themselves, but you don't really look like an ax-murderer, so I think it should be alright. Let's get going."

They paid their tabs and headed out to his car, which was small and practical and smelled slightly of coffee. Naomi settled into the passenger's seat and looked out the window silently. She was pleased that everything seemed to be working out so far, and she was content with her companion. She hoped things would continue in this fashion, because she was closer to feeling optimistic than she'd been in a long while.

* * *

It took a little over six hours for the Winchesters to make it back to the bunker, with only one stop for gas. Sam had stayed in reasonably stable condition, though he would occasionally be hit by coughing fits. Crowley had been quiet for most of the drive, fading in and out of consciousness.

The sun was well over the trees when they finally parked the car.

"Okay, well I'm going to go in and make sure everything is secure. Can you bring him in on your own? Just throw this over his head, and we'll put him in the dungeon," Dean muttered, handing Sam a brown paper bag left over from their last meal.

"No problem," Sam replied.

Dean gave a nod and stepped out of the car, heading toward the bunker door. He unlocked it quickly and then walked in, leaving the door halfway open for Sam. As he made his away around the corner, an arrow flew by and embedded itself in the wall by his head.

"What the Hell…?"

"Dean!" Kevin was standing across the room, crossbow in hand.

"What-"

"I thought you guys were dead!"

"No-"

What's going on? The map just started lighting up like crazy!" Kevin's voice was breathless and panicky.

"Well, basically, the angels fell."

"What? What does that even mean?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, Sam is in bad condition and we have some stuff to deal with. Once we get a handle on everything I'll explain, alright?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, who was leading Crowley down the hall toward the dungeon. He went to follow after him.

Kevin watched him go, eyebrows furrowed. "Wait, Dean, why the Hell is he here?"

Dean turned back and looked at him. "Crowley?"

"Yeah. I thought you guys were going to cure him. It didn't work?"

"Uh, look," Dean paused, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I promise we'll explain everything in just a little while, alright?"

Not waiting for a response, Dean set off after Sam.

* * *

Being human was a great deal more exhausting than Castiel had realized.

After setting out at sunrise, it had taken him two hours worth of walking to make his way out of the trees. Arriving at what appeared to be the outskirts of a city, he set off down a sidewalk, painfully aware of the sweat making his shirt cling to his chest, and the soreness in his limbs. There was an air of desolation about the place, and the street was lined with ramshackle little shops, some seeming to be utterly abandoned. Toward the end of the road there was a small group of people scattered along the curb, all looking despondent and ragged. Castiel headed in their direction.

An old woman in a ragged gray shawl glanced up at his approach, and smiled at him with a mouth missing a few teeth.

"Morning, hunnie," she said in a voice that was high and frail. "Could you spare some change for an old woman?"

Castiel felt a pang in his chest. "I'm sorry, but I have nothing."

The woman nodded and sighed. "That's often the case."

"I could offer you some company," Castiel murmured, sitting down on the pavement beside her.

"Are you poor off, too, laddie?" she asked.

Castiel gave a half smile. "I'm afraid so."

"What's your name?"

Castiel hesitated. "Cas."

"That short for Casanova?" The old woman began to laugh, and Castiel stared at her uncertainly.

She sighed and shook her head. "I haven't laughed like that for a while."

This made Castiel smile.

"Why are you out on the street?" he asked her.

The woman shrugged. "I didn't want to go into a home. Terrible places they are. I had a falling out with my only daughter, and my husband passed four years back, so now I'm here. And what about you, laddie? Why are you here?"

Castiel gave a huff of laughter and looked down at his folded hands. "It's a long and rather unpleasant story."

The woman chuckled. "Dearie, I've seen a lot of sadness in my life, and a little more won't hurt, and it's not like I'm going anywhere. So, why don't you tell me a story?"

"If you insist." He took a deep breath and began.

"I have… made a lot of mistakes and I've lived a long life. I have a large and distant family, and there has rarely been a time when there wasn't strife among us. I have, over the course of my existence, done things I shouldn't have, believing they were right for those I cared for. I believe that pride has blinded me on more than one occasion."

His eyes had taken a rather distant look. The old woman listened silently.

"I have hurt many people who deserved better. I've been foolish."

He paused. "I'm starting to think that pride is one of the fatal flaws that runs in my family."

Recently, I allowed myself to fall for flattery, and it resulted in cataclysm, and many are suffering because of it. I feel as if I have an uphill battle ahead, and I fear I may not win. I have undergone a huge… change, recently, and it has made me feel much more than I did before, and I'm not entirely sure whether this is a good or bad thing."

He took a deep breath and shook his head. "There are some I must make amends with, and much penance I must do. It will be long and challenging journey, but I hope to atone for a great many of my sins."

The old woman was silent for a moment. After a while, she spoke.

"My, my. You make my life sound much more dull. You should write a book."

Castiel stared at her questioningly.

"Well, laddie, journeys can be good for the soul and character. I can't say I envy you, though. I only wish I had some advice to offer you in my old age."

"I do have one question you might be able to answer."

"I'll see what I can do. What is it?"

"How much is a bus ticket from here to Kansas?"

* * *

In the bunker, Dean and Sam left a rather sullen Crowley in the dungeon while they sat Kevin down and attempted to explain what had happened.

"So you're saying that you're just going to quit the trials." Kevin's voice was flat, and his expression cold.

"Look, Kevin, you've got to realize-"

"Do you even understand what I've lost trying to help you guys do this? Have you guys ever even stopped to think about it? I lost my girlfriend, my mom is dead, my life was pretty much ripped apart. I mean… I've lost _everything_. And now you're just telling me that you're calling it quits?"

"Finishing it would have killed Sam-"

"Dean, Hell would have been closed! We would have done something that actually meant something, and you would have won the battle you've been fighting your whole life!"

"Would you have sacrificed someone from your family? Your mom?"

"If we had come this far, and we had lost so much for this, and were that close, yeah, I would have at least left the choice up to her, if nothing else. If she had wanted to do it, I wouldn't have stopped her."

Dean shook his head and was opening his mouth to reply when Sam spoke for the first time in the whole conversation.

"Kevin, I'm sorry. I honestly am. We're still going to try to find a way to finish this, I promise."

Kevin shook his head and sighed. "What about Crowley?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, brow furrowed.

"Why the hell is he still alive?"

"Sam thinks we can still cure him at some point-"

"You could cure another demon. As long as he's still alive, he's still a threat."

"Kevin, we're not killing him. Not yet, anyway."

Kevin stared at him for a minute and then stood up. "I'm leaving."

"You're what?" Dean demanded.

"I'm done. You said I would be out soon, and I've just had it. Someone else can do something with the damn angel tablet. I'm finished."

"Kevin, Hell is still open and without leadership, Abaddon is on the loose, and there are a bunch of flightless and probably extremely pissed off angels out there. I don't think leaving is such a good idea right now."

Kevin stopped and stood for a moment, before turning and stalking off into another room, muttering under his breath the whole time.

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes and let out a long breath. He glanced over at Sam, who was slumped down in his seat, complexion pallid and a sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

"Sam? Sammy, you okay?"

Sam blinked slowly and moved his head in what might have been a nod. "Just feeling tired. I'm just going to rest for a while, alright?"

Dean watched him for a moment before heading off to the kitchen to find something for them to eat. He wondered whether Sam would recover from this on his own, or whether he'd need some sort of treatment. Lost in thought, he paced aimlessly around the kitchen for a moment before grabbing a beer out of the fridge for himself and a glass of water for Sam, and then walked back into the living room.

Sam, from what he could tell, was pretty much out of it. Hesitantly, Dean approached him and set a hand on his forehead, wincing at how high his temperature was.

"Damn it," he growled, setting the cup of water down and walking into the kitchen and back again, wondering what the best course of action was. He couldn't take him to a hospital. What the hell would he even tell them?

Frustrated, he decided to give it time. Maybe Sam would just sleep it off.

He was wrong.

Within two hours, Sam's skin felt considerably warmer to the touch, and he could barely go a few minutes without going into a coughing spell. He fell in and out of sleep, progressively weaker each time he woke.

Two hours more, and Sam only stayed conscious for spells of a minute at a time, and seemed slightly delirious after waking. Dean could feel panic starting to take hold of him, his pulse pounding and hands shaking as he stalked back and forth across the room, gaze darting to Sam every few seconds.

Barely conscious of his actions, he found himself digging through the medical kit he had pulled out to check Sam's temperature until he found a syringe and some rubbing alcohol. He rose and walked, feeling as if in a dream, towards the dungeon. He flipped on the lights as he entered, finding Crowley looking extremely annoyed. The demon's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of the needle.

"Come to try to cure me yourself? You actually think that's going to work?"

Dean scowled at him and walked over, kneeling down and lifting up Crowley's pant leg to dump the rubbing alcohol on his bare skin.

"What the Hell-" Crowley cut off with a cry of surprise as Dean pushed the needle into his vein and began, slowly, to drag the plunger back.

Crowley sat in silence for a moment, staring in wonder. "Are you really doing this?"

Dean said nothing.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Dean looked up then. "No. And if you do, I'll make you wish that we had just killed you."

Crowley's lip curled in a slight sneer, but the expression died when he saw the look on Dean's face.

"You've really lost it, haven't you?" Crowley asked after a minute.

Dean extracted the now full syringe and jerked Crowley's pant leg down before rising and walked out of the room.


End file.
